


Stone Soup

by Maygra



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 02:30:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra





	Stone Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rache (wickedwords)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/gifts).



Author's Notes:

Disclaimers: I lay no claim to the characters or the circumstances of Highlander: The Series. This story originally appeared in Futures Without End IV. Rated NC17, slash.

Stone Soup

Stone Soup   
by Maygra   
(for Rache) 

It took MacLeod about five minutes to realize that he wasn't going to find parking any closer than about two blocks from the waterfront market, even at such an early morning hour. He guided his Jeep into the closest garage and picked up his ticket. Two levels down and he found a space, committed the slot number to memory, and locked the vehicle.

Sunglasses cut the glare of the early morning sun, and he buttoned the sleeves of his denim shirt against the chill before slipping on his thigh length coat. Not his usual haunt, and it just wasn't worth being caught off guard, he thought as he adjusted the heavy but familiar weight at his side.

The market map gave him the location of Victoria's, and he headed in and down, pausing to take in the sights and sounds of the already busy market. He was early; Methos would, no doubt, be slightly late, even though he'd set the meeting time and place.

Fresh seafood was coming in; the scents of salt and fish and water, both clean and brackish, wafted through the air, intermixed with the heavy perfumed scents of fresh flowers and produce, coffee and chocolate, as the market's vendors cranked up for another day of tourism and profit.

Beyond the market he could faintly hear the sounds of ferries and cruise ships, bells and whistles, echoing across the waters of Puget Sound. For a moment he almost slipped into another time and place. So much movement, so many sounds and sights and smells. It was as reassuring as it was disconcerting.

He found the down ramp and followed it, looking for the third level, and then followed his nose as much as his memory of the map to Victoria's. It faced the water, which could be seen a block over, and the reflected morning sun set the water to sparkling, as did the wavy poured-glass panes of the coffee shop's windows. Steaming milk and espresso, sharp fresh cinnamon scents, and hazelnut made the memory of the expensive roast he'd brewed at home seem less rich and too long ago.

Awareness tingled along his spine, and he took a breath, turning slightly, and caught sight of a familiar set of hazel eyes regarding him from a table at the far end of the narrow shop. He let out the breath he'd been half-holding and stepped up to the counter to order, going for the brève, the idea of heavy cream and espresso too much to resist. Before he could get his wallet out, a hand reached around him, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter to the teenager working the register. The kid didn't care who paid and rang it out, counting out change while MacLeod turned to face his companion.

So he'd just seen Methos two days ago, at Joe's first, then at the movie they'd both decided they wanted to see, Joe coming along so he could poke fun at the special effects. A good night, all in all, but Methos looked different. It was half in MacLeod's thoughts to ask if he'd gotten a haircut when his order was up.

"Thank you," he said, first to the barrista, who only grinned at him like she had just heard a joke, and then to Methos, who was leaning against the counter after pocketing his change, sipping his own coffee. "You know, there's a Starbucks halfway between my place and yours," MacLeod commented as he stepped to the side to let the next customer in.

"True enough, but no market like this." Methos stood up, and MacLeod once more wondered what was different about his friend. Not the clothes; he'd seen the black jeans before, and the white T-shirt. The jacket wasn't new, either, and despite a quick scan, he couldn't see that Methos' hair was any shorter or differently styled than it had been two days ago.

"Enjoy the drive up?" Methos asked him as he deftly guided them out the door and back toward the ramps.

"Nice...missed most of the traffic. We could have come up together."

"I was already here." Methos had his jacket hooked in a two-finger hold over his right shoulder, the leather slapping easily against his back and MacLeod's arm. Not weighted. Mac nudged him to the side and Methos went, a slightly surprised look on his face.

"Where's your sword?" Mac asked, almost crowding Methos into an angled alcove between two shops.

Methos leaned back against the concrete and smiled ever so slightly. "It's in its sheath in the trunk of my car. Where's yours?"

"With me, as yours should be--or so you keep reminding me," Mac said, not quite angry, but something like it.

"As long as one of us has one," Methos said and pushed off again, forcing Mac to take a step back. "I'm safe enough, MacLeod. Come on, we haven't got all day."

"All day for what?" Mac said, falling back in step with his companion and taking a sip of his coffee. Rich, pleasantly sharp.

"Ah, well...for something out of the ordinary." Methos finished his own coffee and tossed the container into the nearest trashcan, taking the last ramp in a few, unhurried, long-legged strides. MacLeod followed, still nursing a bit of a pique, but determined to let it slide. It was a busy place with a lot of people--an awkward place to force a challenge even if they did run into someone.

Busy enough that if he didn't pay attention, he'd lose Methos in the press of bodies trying to get their shopping done before it got really crowded. A flash of a white shirt and he was close, then closer still as Methos suddenly stopped to let a mother with a two-child stroller cross his path. Mac put his hand to his friend's back to steady himself, his other hand held slightly out to keep from spilling his coffee all over that white shirt.

"They should come with horns, those things," Methos muttered, half in annoyance and partly in amusement, as he leaned back against Mac's hand so he could be heard. His eyes tracked the double-wide until mother and children came to stop before a display of fresh pastries. Methos spread his hand lightly across MacLeod's waist, pushing him to the left. "There," he said, indicating a fishmonger's. 'City Seafood' could be seen amid the other saran-covered paper signs listing specials and price per pound and shipping instructions.

"What's your pleasure, Mac?" Methos asked him, surveying the bounty and grinning.

"What's this?" Mac asked and finished his coffee, glancing around for a trashcan.

"What do you like? Crab, mussels, a little cod?"

"For breakfast?" Mac saw a container and ducked away to toss the cup, returning to find Methos gone.

He stood there, looking around. How far could the man have gotten in the two seconds he was gone? He did a half-turn, looking for a white shirt and dark hair, then spotted him, half-way around the other end of the counter, grinning as the fishmongers tossed a whole fish back and forth like a child's baseball. It was as much showmanship as hawking, and Mac grinned as well. A young girl shrieked in delight as the fish face came too close when the hawker made as if to lose it out of his hands. She scurried back to her father's side, still laughing as the hawker winked at her and tossed the fish back over the counter.

Methos was close to laughing. He had his jacket tucked under one arm, both arms folded across his stomach, grinning at the antics until he caught MacLeod watching him. The grin remained, but it was different somehow as their eyes met and held, and Mac found himself grinning back. All right. Methos had some kind of scheme or plan in the works and he wanted Mac to play along with him, and how much trouble could they get into at a fish stall?

He shouldered his way over, coming to stand beside Methos. "Mussels, yes. Crab, yes. What else?"

"Some halibut and scallops, I think," Methos said, and handed Mac his coat before he stepped up to place their order.

The hawkers made a show of it, of course, juggling Dungeness crabs like circus clowns, sailing the halibut back and forth over the counter several times, pausing long enough to ask Methos if it was big enough, or would an older brother be a better choice? Methos assured fish and monger alike that it was a fine size and filleted would be good.

Paper wrapped, scallops and mussels bagged, Methos paid and took the shopping bag, surrendering his space to the next customer, and led Mac along the alleyway to other shops.

Methos took his time, selecting breads and some sandwiches to go in the bag. At some point he took back his coat, and Mac took up the bag of vegetables and fruit. Methos caught his elbow and pulled him toward a cheese counter.

"Are we shopping for a week, or just for lunch?" MacLeod asked him, pulling a bit of straw from Methos' back where it had clung after drifting down from the slightly dusty air.

Methos turned to him smiling and amused, an amusement Mac shared, though he couldn't say why. He didn't know why Methos was laughing, only that it wasn't at Mac himself. "Lunch of a sort. Dinner, actually. I'm making you dinner, Duncan." Explanation and invitation all in one, and MacLeod wasn't in the mood to decline, or even question, really.

Methos picked out an aged white cheddar and some hard toast rounds, once more surrendering his bags to MacLeod so he could dig out his wallet. Waiting for Methos to pay, MacLeod took advantage of some of the samples laid out. The girl behind the counter wrapped up the cheese and handed it to MacLeod. She smiled, and so did he, with thanks. She glanced over at Methos, who was paying the cashier, and back at MacLeod, grinning again. "Nice," she said, and Mac found himself grinning back and looking before the comment even really registered.

His companion had one hand pressed to the glass fronted counter, leaning forward to accept his change, stretched slightly over the display since the space directly in front of the register was occupied.

Nice. Not Methos was nice, or Mac was, as in polite, or well mannered, but nice to look at, and Mac found himself agreeing, again without thinking about it over much. Nice body, well-honed, and a nice if slightly unusual face.

Or was it? Methos' face was familiar and welcome most times, unless they were at odds. But no, even then. As welcome as Joe's, or Amanda's or Connor's, or any of a half-dozen other people he knew and enjoyed seeing--found joy in being with. Nice face. Distinctive. A strong face that held equal intensity, whether angry or laughing; eyes that seemed to see through you and constantly shifted through any number of different emotions and colors. Or so it seemed, although Mac always came back to hazel; neither common, nor unusual, but perfectly right for the rest of Methos' face. A mouth Mac much preferred smiling to scowling, and he wondered if Methos felt the same about MacLeod's mouth. He scowled often enough in Methos' presence to make an impression, he was sure.

And right now that mouth was smiling again, and the eyes were dancing with humor, and Mac realized he was staring.

It was an odd sort of warmth that started in his belly and then flowed through him--the jalapeno cheese he'd sampled, no doubt. He cleared his throat, slipping the wrapped block of cheddar into the bag before surrendering it to Methos, who dropped the toast rounds in, as well.

"I think that's it," Methos said, seemingly unaware of the jalapeno flush to MacLeod's face. "Ready?"

"For what?" Mac asked as they headed back through the crowd, angling for one of the outside entrances. Bright sunshine filtered in, and there was more movement beyond, more colors, more sound, and MacLeod concentrated fully on listening to Methos over all the rest.

"I'm parked this way," Methos said, as if that answered Mac's question, and shifted coat and bags to one arm, pulling his sunglasses up from the neoprene cord around his neck to protect his eyes from the sudden glare. Tinted dark amber, they hid his eyes.

"I'm parked back that way, " MacLeod said, vaguely pointing in the opposite direction. "In a garage."

"Should be good, then." Methos seemed unconcerned and uninterested, leading the way into the street toward the end of the row of cars parked along the outside wall of the market. It took a moment, but MacLeod finally saw the hulking SUV Methos drove. Prime parking.

"What? Did you get here at dawn?" MacLeod asked as they moved to avoid people and moving vehicles alike.

"Shortly after." Methos glanced back and grinned. "Hate traffic."

It was almost a joke, but Mac wasn't sure he got the punchline; then it didn't matter as he almost dropped his sack in his hurry to grab Methos and pull him out of the way of a car that whipped into an open parking space that hadn't been there a moment before. The driver obviously hadn't seen Methos at all from her look of sudden horror and panic when she saw the pair of them pressed back against the tail of the car next to her.

Her mouthed apologies went unheeded, MacLeod taking a deep breath of relief. Methos had tensed in surprise at the grab and now relaxed, understanding both motive and need. Sun-warmed cotton and a vague scent of sweat left an impression on MacLeod's olfactory senses, and a different warmth washed through him at the feel of Methos' body leaning against his own.

And not a slice of jalapeno cheddar in sight.

"All right?" he asked, and Methos nodded, but seemed as disinclined to move as MacLeod felt disinclined to let go.

Right up until the four-wheel drive assassin got out of her car to continue with her until-now silent apology.

Reassuring her they were all right, they escaped back onto the cobbles and walked closer together, eyes more alert to the shifting traffic patterns around them, which pretty much forestalled looking at each other. That fact both eased MacLeod's mind and distressed him.

"Nice save. Thank you," Methos said as they finally reached his car and he unlocked the back.

"Yeah," MacLeod said eloquently, feeling awkward as he gazed at his friend. Then it was gone as the rear hatch opened and Methos set the bags down. MacLeod could only stare, glad of the diversion, but not sure why. "Dinner, or camping?"

Methos chuckled.

The back of the SUV was loaded, though not over-packed; there were two coolers, one large and one small. The seafood went into one, along with the sandwiches, which nestled on top. The other held beer and a couple of bottles of wine, and Methos packed the vegetables on top of that. There were folded blankets and a few other odds and ends. Methos popped the cover of the wheel well in the floor and laid his coat inside, and Mac could see the gleam of steel and the dull sheen of oiled leather.

He took his own jacket off and laid it atop Methos', then closed the well cover.

It took some time to maneuver out of the waterfront area, but it wasn't late. The lunch crowd hadn't started moving in yet, and Methos was out of the city and onto the freeway within fifteen minutes, heading slightly north, but not directly back toward Seacouver.

"Where are we going, or should I ask?"

"You can ask," Methos said with a grin and a glance, but he didn't tease MacLeod for long. "A friend of mine has a place close by. On the water. Looks like it will be a nice day for a clambake."

"Clambake," MacLeod repeated, and paid attention to the road signs. "This wasn't spur of the moment."

"Well, no. I did call you yesterday."

"And if I'd said no?"

"I'd have asked some other day." Methos eased over toward the exit for Falling Bay, and they were off the interstate and winding back toward the coast. "I thought you might be up for a day away from stripping floors and cutting molding."

"You offered to help," MacLeod pointed out. Methos had, but had not yet shown up to fulfill that offer--although in fairness, Mac hadn't called to do much more than invite him to the movies or to Joe's. The renovations at the dojo had no timetable, even though MacLeod was ostensibly readying it for sale and had been for about six months. He'd been interrupted when Methos arrived to teach as a guest lecturer at Rainier--a short-term contract for all of two or three days a week.

"I still will," Methos said, and took another turn along a road that rode close to the water, then found a driveway and turned in, climbing slightly before leveling out. He pulled in next to a sweeping cypress and cut the engine.

"Right." MacLeod got out, looking at the house, which was larger than a cottage, but not huge. Stairs led up to the main level, and he could see that the ground fell away behind the house, and a long narrow stair led down to the water.

"We'll go up first," Methos said, grabbing their sandwiches, but leaving his other purchases in the car. MacLeod followed him up as he led the way and unlocked the door. Inside, the house was open and inviting, a huge bay window covering almost the entire rear wall, with a sliding door in the center that led to a deck overlooking the water. The kitchen was on the north wall, and the rest of the area held low couches and chairs, a table, a desk and chair, with a fireplace on the south wall. Stairs led up and down.

"Bed and bath are upstairs," Methos said, pointing as he put their lunch into the refrigerator. "Coffee? Juice? Beer?"

"Nice place," Mac said, settling in front of the window for a moment to look out. The vista was framed by cedars, but otherwise it was unimpeded and fairly spectacular. Distantly he could see boats, powered and sail, moving along the bay, and a few more houses along the water, mostly hidden by trees. Opening the sliding glass, he stepped out and looked down. He lost sight of all the turns in the staircase, but he could see the cove below, flanked by rocks and more cedars, water oaks, and the edge of what looked like beach.

The sound of a coffee mill was loud among the birds and the breeze rippling through the trees, like some huge mutant insect, but then it was gone, and he could smell the rich, loamy scent of fresh-ground beans. Methos wandered out to join him, smelling of coffee momentarily before the breeze washed the aroma away. "Coffee will be ready in a moment, and the rest is in the icebox. I've a few things to do, so make yourself at home."

"I can help," MacLeod offered, and Methos leaned against the railing, his shoulder brushing Mac's.

"You will, but this is fast. Back in a few." He nudged MacLeod once, and then turned, heading inside and then outside and down, and Mac caught a glimpse of him descending the stairs to the water's edge, carrying a couple of the smaller bags from the back of the truck. From Mac's vantage, he didn't see him reappear on the slim sliver of visible land.

Wandering back in, he found mugs and set two out while the coffee brewed, then headed upstairs. A single bedroom, easily as large as the room below, with its own deck and fireplace, and an oversized bath, as well as another alcove for what looked like an office, and a sitting area. The colors were all muted browns and greens and blues, solid, masculine colors that offset paler wood, and a mix of botanical prints and landscapes spread irregularly along the walls. The view from the deck up here was almost all water and the opposite shore. From the corner of the deck, near the water, a set of weathered looking wind chimes sent out random deep tones.

The bath was large, with a spa tub and separate shower stall, and still more prints; a glance at the shelves in the bedroom revealed a number of books on botany and local biology. A scholar friend, maybe. Someone Methos had met at the university? Mac had gotten the impression Methos had known their unseen host for longer than that, but he hadn't been in Seacouver for that long.

He heard a door and went downstairs again to find Methos pouring coffee, then cupping his mug in his hands as he looked up at Mac. He leaned against the counter, watching as Mac got his own coffee and sipped it appreciatively. "Spend much time here?"

"A day here or there. A weekend. Jordan can't get up here much anymore. Summers, mostly, when it's warm. Arthritis." Methos pushed off, going to the stereo and picking out a CD to slip into the player.

Arthritis. It would be difficult, with the stairs. "Friend of yours from the university?"

"Emeritus. Guest lectures occasionally. I've known him for awhile. Used to teach botany."

"I saw the prints."

"He did those," Methos said, as the Music of Falling Water began to play softly. "Still does when his hands let him."

MacLeod watched Methos silently, thoughts half on his unknown host who had grown old in the time Methos had known him, wondering where they'd met and how long ago, but he felt shy asking. "Is he going to sell this place?"

"Eventually. He's in no hurry. He talks about renovating the basement into an efficiency apartment. Interested?" Methos was all grins and teasing when he looked up, and Mac found himself responding with a similar smile.

"Trying to get me to change professions? Antiquarian to sub-contractor?"

"Not bad work if you can get it. You did pretty well on Anne's house, on the barge, on the dojo."

"The barge--need to sell that," Mac said idly, sloshing the contents of his mug around before taking the final swallow.

"You've been saying that for two years."

"I know." Mac made a face and turned back for more coffee, which he didn't really want, and ended up rinsing his mug out instead.

"Hard to let go sometimes," Methos said, and was suddenly there, at MacLeod's shoulder again.

"Sometimes," Mac admitted. Joe accused him of the same thing: renovations to the dojo were just an excuse to stop seeing clients and running a gym out of the big space. MacLeod had had half-a-dozen commercial offers for the space, but had taken none of them, and none of the bids had been low.

As if he needed the money.

"So, interested?" Methos asked.

"Are you going to help?" MacLeod arched one eyebrow, giving Methos a skeptical look.

"I might be persuaded. Need to chop vegetables." He changed topics and was gone that fast, leaving MacLeod to follow again, still shaking his head and smiling. It would seem that serious topics were not on the day's agenda.

Between the two of them they got the coolers and bags upstairs, their treasures spread out over counter and island. It looked like a lot of food for two people, but MacLeod didn't question, just used the knife Methos gave him to render the peppers and onions and squash into broad squares of edible confetti. He piled them high in a bowl while Methos took on the prep of the fish, icing down the mussels and crab.

It was a familiar working relationship, Mac realized, counting back over dinners past when Methos could be counted on to fix a salad or coat a main course in some marinade MacLeod had never heard of; he was sure that Methos made up the marinades on the spot, complete with outrageous stories surrounding their origins or how he'd stumbled across them. Like subtle hints of seasoning, he presented his past in bite-size pieces for MacLeod to sample, prompting Mac to compare experiences, offering his own less illustrious past in return. Except there wasn't much illustrious about Methos' past, for the most part.

Mac found himself watching as Methos carefully scrubbed sand out of the mussels, hands capable and sure--a familiar task. He was meticulously careful as he dropped the cleaned shells onto the ice. It was a familiar sight, MacLeod realized, not with the suddenness of insight, but the gradual acknowledgement of something he'd known, but hadn't really thought about. Methos in his kitchen, behind Joe's bar, filling in when it got busy and he happened to be there. In his own apartment, puttering between kitchen and a desk laden with reference materials and lecture notes.

Methos had been student, professor, doctor, farmer, lawyer, Indian chief, he claimed, although MacLeod wrote that one off with a grin and a chuckle, until he thought of his own time with the Lakota and among the natives in South America. Maybe.

Soldier, mercenary, dilettante, hunter, trapper, lawman--his own titles and occupations and means of existence blended into the meaningless words that went with a long life and a roaming lifestyle.

Many things and many lives for both of them, and not so different on that level.

Only Methos seemed to be settling in, and MacLeod was feeling restless. No real sense of purpose or permanence.

"I think I'm done," he said, wiping the knife clean, and Methos looked back and nodded. "We can pack the bowls back in the cooler and carry them down. There's a container in the refrigerator--fish stock. And lunch. Beer?"

"Good enough," Mac said, even though it was still cool and not likely to get a lot warmer. Methos finished cleaning the last of the shellfish and put them in the cooler, as well.

It had warmed some, just in the hour or so they'd been inside. They carried the larger of the two coolers between them down the stairs to the waterfront. The stair opened onto another series of decks, set into the natural incline of the cliff face, with the lowest level made of rock and flagstone. A deck set in the Adirondack style faced the water with a fire pit set into the rock. The pit itself was cold and dark, but MacLeod could smell smoke and the scent of seasoned water steaming. A few more steps down and he could see it: another pit dug into the dark sand, a huge steamer kettle barely visible over dampened corn husks and bracken to keep the coals banked. Not something set up in the few minutes Methos had been gone.

"You did get up early." They set the cooler down close by, and Methos used a pair of long handled tongs to lift the lid of the steam pot.

"Early enough," Methos said, opening the cooler to take out the food they'd prepped. "I'd have buried it all in palm fronds, but I thought you might like to eat sometime today. We'll have a luau some other day."

The cove was small, less than a hundred feet across, the high tide line a good twenty feet from where Methos had set up his pit. A very small dock jutted out another half-dozen feet--it would float at high tide. Leaving the other man to load in the food, MacLeod went to the water's edge. From this angle, it was easy to believe there were no other houses or people within a great distance.

"I'd be reluctant to give this place up, too," MacLeod said aloud, but not really to Methos.

"Sometimes you get lucky." Methos handed him an open beer. There were shadows here, facing west as they did, cooler again, without the sun from above to warm them. Methos was still wearing his T-shirt and no coat or sweater.

"You cold?" Mac asked him, sipping at the beer.

"A little." Methos gave no sign of being chilled, though, eyes cast toward the water as Mac's had been. "Getting a little cold is good--reminds me to appreciate the warm," he said after a moment, and turned away. MacLeod caught his arm.

"This is nice. I'm enjoying it."

Warm was good, and Methos' smile was that. "I'm glad," he said simply. "Enjoy it. I have no other plans. It will be a few hours before this is all ready. There's a trail while the tide's out, sandwiches in the cooler if you get hungry." He lingered for a moment, MacLeod's hand still on his arm.

"No entertainment?" Mac was smiling.

"I frequently am--entertaining, that is. Today, though..." Methos seemed about to say something else, but MacLeod could almost see the gears shifting. "Just relax. I wanted your company." He pulled away then, back to the pit, and crouched, tucking full ears of corn around the base of the steamer to roast and steam.

It seemed odd to claim a desire for companionship, then seek a vague equivalent of solitude, and Mac watched him for a long moment, trying to puzzle out what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. A powerboat roared dully across the water a hundred yards out, and Mac was still standing in the same spot when the tiny residual waves of the wake churned up the water closer in. Methos was sitting on the ground near the pot and the warmth, knees up and arms hooked around them casually as he sipped his beer. He looked totally comfortable and at ease and in place, Mac thought.

In place, as MacLeod did not and had not for some months. No sense of place save the familiar ones, but even they didn't feel quite his any longer. The loft was emptier than he remembered, Seacouver more crowded, Paris more alien. This place jogged his memory of his own retreat, and he had thought about that, as well, save the isolation didn't appeal to him as much as it had in the months following Richie's death.

Joe was settled here, and sometimes his barman/Watcher/best friend looked at MacLeod as if he thought Mac was waiting for something. For Joe to die, maybe, like Methos' friend Jordan. For Methos to move on, even though he gave every indication of staying--for a while, anyway.

Or maybe they were waiting for him to move on, which he'd been giving a lot of thought to lately. Privately.

The trails beckoned and the tide was out, yet MacLeod was reluctant to leave. He turned back, sitting on the stone edge of the decking.

They sat in silence for a while, not in true boredom, although MacLeod felt himself getting drowsy with the stillness of it all. The sun shifted and warmed the air a bit more, and Mac nobly resisted the urge to stir the pot or ask Methos to do so.

There was tension between them, but so light and ephemeral that Mac didn't know if was really between them, or just within himself.

"Not everything has deep, resonant meaning, Duncan," Methos said, but a glance up showed his companion hadn't really moved and wasn't looking at Mac. No indication at all that he had spoken aloud.

"How long have you known Jordan?" he asked.

"Ten or eleven years."

Not long at all, then. Not long enough for Jordan to really notice his friend wasn't aging. "Have you stayed here with him?"

The question felt as awkward as it sounded, the feeling increasing when Methos looked at him with an odd expression on his face. "Are you asking me if we were lovers?"

Had he been? He wasn't sure. "Not really. Just...conversation."

"Ah. Yes, I have. No, we aren't, weren't." Methos was still watching him, thoughtfully.

"It's none of my business," Mac said, wondering how the conversation had taken such a turn.

"No, it's not," Methos said, but there was no anger in his voice. What tonal quality was there sounded more like regret than anything. Annoyance? Not quite. "It's just a day, Mac. We could have gone to the movies."

"I wasn't thinking that," Mac said, pretty sure it was true--not Methos and the faceless Jordan as lovers, or Methos and anyone as lovers. Not then. But now...

It wasn't a shocking thought, or even unwelcome. He'd had other men as lovers, if not in the romantic sense, then in the sense of sharing bed and bodies for pleasure. Late in the life of an Immortal, perhaps...earlier than some, maybe. It had taken a century or two to shed the upbringing that had molded him in that respect, then another century of availing himself of those pleasures. The past century he'd spent schooling his desires once more to better fit in with the times--repressive as they might be--and no one, in truth, no male, had so intrigued him as had the women he'd loved and buried in the past century.

Methos didn't answer, only smiled and turned his gaze to the water once more. "I met Jordan during a buying trip for Shakespeare and Company. Book market things. He was there for some marketing panel or something. I admired his prints, he admired my knowledge. He's an interesting man."

And found you interesting, as well, Mac thought, but didn't say, knowing the impression of Adam Pierson as something of an intellectual prodigy was a flaw in Methos' camouflage. It wasn't so different from finding the vastness of Methos' experience fascinating.

"You enjoy the academic life."

Methos nodded. "Right up until I run into the bureaucracy that is academic life, and then I look for something else."

"Like subcontracting?" Methos laughed at that, and MacLeod smiled, glad to have accomplished that much.

"Something like that. You look for new things as well."

"I like working with my hands."

"You do it well," Methos commented, and MacLeod was disproportionately pleased by the compliment. "So, was that a yes?"

He was only half teasing, and Mac shrugged. "Maybe. Trade you for some serious help on the dojo."

Methos considered, finished his beer, and nodded. "Done." He unfolded himself from the ground, stretching, empty bottle dangling from his fingertips.

"That was too easy."

"Not everything is a struggle," Methos said, tucking the bottle into the corner of the ice chest and pulling out their lunch. The sun was nearly overhead, but its light was filtered through the canopy of leaves and evergreens.

The tensions drained away entirely over spicy Italian ham and fresh vegetables, soft cheese and beer. Methos put kindling and logs into the deck firepit, finally acquiescing to the coolness, but still not wanting his coat or another shirt. They sat and talked, tossing ideas back and forth about the work to be done at the dojo, what Jordan wanted done to this house. By and by, Methos added more of the seafood to the steaming pot until the cooler was empty. Then they did go upstairs to clean it out, find utensils and bowls, and take a look at the lower level, so Methos could show Mac what Jordan had outlined to be done. Then wandering slowly back through the house for more beer.

"You like this part of the country?" Mac commented as they stood on the upper deck. The air had warmed enough that he'd rolled his sleeves up to the elbow.

Methos nodded over his second beer in as many hours. "For the most part. A bit wet for my tastes now and again, but I'll take too wet to too dry anytime."

"Plan on staying?"

"For a while. You?" Methos asked, eyes fixed on MacLeod's face with a casual regard, but it somehow made Mac's heart hammer a bit too quickly.

"For a bit, yet."

"Why?"

"Good question." Mac spoke before really thinking about it. It seemed to be the day for it. "The doj--"

"Don't." It was said softly, imprecation rather than scold. "No excuses, Duncan."

It sounded odd, coming from Methos--or maybe not. At one point Duncan would have said that Methos lived by his excuses, his rationalizations, but anymore... Something had shifted, some perception had been altered, but before he could pin it down, the moment passed as Methos turned away and back, reentering the house. A few moments later MacLeod heard the lower door open and close and caught the barest glimpse of Methos heading down the stairs to the beach.

Rubbing his eyes, MacLeod stared outward, turning the question over in his mind. He was staying because he had no reason yet to leave. Nothing luring him on, save a change of pace or vista, and that alone wasn't enough. He stayed in the absence of anything better to do or any other reason to do anything. His year in Malaysia had calmed his mind, bandaged the wounds of his soul, but answered no questions, not yet. His encounter with O'Rourke had taught him to value his friends and maybe, just maybe, to value himself as well, in relationship to them. His own life was not a cheap commodity. Not any longer. Not for now. And what else could be out there for him better than what he had now?

Which was pretty much no more than a place to live and friends to share moments with. He had those all over the world. Friends still, as little or infrequently as he saw them. And Joe wouldn't live forever, so he could wait that long, couldn't he? Close enough not to be remarked upon as the years passed, but not so far as not to be a constant in that mortal life--maybe others.

No excuses, and yet there was at least one: he'd forgotten how to let go. He'd spent a couple hundred years trying to let go of Scotland and had never really succeeded. Another hundred shedding the false trappings of morality that made no sense, and now letting go was not so obvious.

Methos' keys were on the counter, and he got them, returning to the SUV to unlock the back and pull out his coat, and Methos', as well. It would get chill again as the sun went down. He left the swords in the well, staring at them as he lay the katana next to Methos' blade. Different styles, different times, different histories. MacLeod had seen the katana in Methos' hands; he wielded it as well as Mac did, the carved and curved hilt fitting easily in his hands, the light blade well suited for someone as agile and skilled and light bodied as Methos.

Methos' blade was heavier, requiring slightly less skill, but as much strength and control. It was similar to the one MacLeod had taught Richie to use, that he had learned to use over the centuries until he settled into the katana's allure of speed and grace.

What did their blades say about them? Methos' blade was carefully crafted, well cared for, but it was no display or museum piece; it was purely a killing blade. Used correctly, by a master, it could shatter a lesser blade. Used with its rapier twin, its purpose was deadly, and Methos never displayed it as Mac did the katana.

So, Mac valued his skill, and Methos hid his proficiency. Methos commented on how much MacLeod's emotions showed, and Mac found the mystery behind the face Methos showed to be both fascinating and infuriating.

And right now Methos was on the beach stirring a pot full of shellfish and vegetables, and had asked Mac not to make excuses.

He closed the well lid slowly and folded both jackets over his arm before lowering the hatch. The keys went into his pocket, and his steps carried him down to the water's edge.

He could smell the stew before he reached the bottom step, rich and tangy, accompanied by the metallic scrape of the ladle to the metal sides. The fire had been built up, casting a pocket of warmth on the deck, and the chairs had been moved closer, a cloth tossed on the small table, the wine open and breathing, a plate of corn cooling, the hard sourdough rounds laid out in a basket. The trees surrounding the cove let the late afternoon gold of the sun into the hideaway without blinding them with glare.

Draping their coats over the chairs, Mac descended the last few steps, boots crunching on the small rocks and pebbles. Methos had bowls ready and was adding the already cooked crab to let it warm. "Between the two of us, we can move the whole thing up to the fire to keep it warm," Mac said, squatting down close to the warm coals and opening his palms to the heat.

"That would work. Towels beside you. Are you hungry?"

Mac smiled. "I wasn't, but--" he sniffed, "I could be persuaded."

"Then the day is not a total failure," Methos said with an answering smile that reached his eyes, but only briefly.

"Did you think it would be?" MacLeod reached for the towels and handed Methos one.

"No. But then I'm not sure I really thought about what a totally successful one would look like, so who am I to judge?" Methos wrapped his cloth around the handle, and Mac did the same on the opposite side. The pot wasn't that heavy, but it was nearly full and awkward to lift out of the hole. Between them it was easy, the same coordination they'd fallen into in the kitchen holding up as they moved up the short steps to the fireplace and set the pot into a corner to stay warm.   
MacLeod went back for the bowls and the ladle, then sat while Methos served. The scent itself was enough to feed a man. The wine ran to gold in the light, dry and slightly sweet.

"All day for a bowl of soup," Methos said after they'd both tasted. He grinned and went back for a second bite, using a round of bread to catch the dripping broth.

It was good: tangy with spices, mussels open and tender, still enough body to the fish to hold up to a spoon. The shells made a tinny clatter as they hit the bowl set between them. The wine cooled the spices without washing away the taste.

"Soup worth wasting a day on," MacLeod said, and it came out wrong again. He'd meant it as a compliment, as a thank you. Methos nodded, seeming not to notice, and kept eating until Mac set his spoon down. "That's not what I meant. It's not wasted. Not at all."

"I know what you meant, Duncan." Hazel eyes looked darker, even more enigmatic and unwavering in backlighting. "You're welcome. The sunset is really nice here. We can head back afterward."

"That's not what I meant."

"Don't think too hard about this. I'm not offended. The day has been a good one. Eat your soup, Duncan. Watch the sunset." Methos was still smiling, and in his voice there was a softness. He wasn't offended. He wasn't rushing through their meal. Maybe he understood.

MacLeod wasn't sure he did himself, but he was working on it.

By the time they finished, the sun was low. A faint glow directly above spoke of lights on timers. Beyond them, past the water, the gold turned to rose and purple; a thin brilliant line like fire above the cloudline cast odd shadows. Fish came up to nibble at the scraps they tossed in the water as they watched the sun set. There was enough stew left for a family of twelve.

They watched, silent and still, until the sun vanished below the horizon, the residual glow spreading outward in waves and rays of color and light as the earth turned to dark purple shadows, the houses on the opposite shore revealed by pinpricks of lights in ambers and whites and faint pinks. The stars that had been faintly visible in twilight emerged more brightly, turning black sky to something else--not quite color, but texture, silk or velvet, warmer looking than the clear blue they'd seen all day.

"You've seen a lot of those," MacLeod said quietly, breaking the silence with a sound only slightly above a whisper. If Methos had been standing any further away it would have been lost in the lap of the waves against the shore.

"I have. So have you. May you see many more, Duncan."

He half-expected there to be a shooting star for such a wish to be cast upon, but the night sky remained unchanging. Methos drew a breath and turned away, intent on the deck and the detritus of their meal.

For the third time that day, MacLeod caught his arm, above the elbow. He kept drawing Methos back, but he wasn't really sure it was Methos turning away so much as himself--except this time. It was like some moment had been breached and lost, and Mac didn't know what it was, or was supposed to be, only that he wasn't sure he wanted it to slip away.

"Was this a goodbye?" he asked, wishing he could see more of Methos' face in the shadows. The other man had his back to the fire, while MacLeod knew his own was exposed and illuminated. Maybe it needed to be.

"Not from me," Methos said, and his other hand came to rest lightly on Mac's. "Just a day, Mac."

"A lot of planning for a bowl of soup," MacLeod said.

"Not really. I enjoy your company. I thought it time I showed you that."

Methos' hand dropped away, and the moment was slipping by again while MacLeod tried to find his place in all this. In the day, in the restlessness he'd felt in the face of Methos' calm--as if the other man were waiting for something, and not just a sunset.

A meal, a day off, a job to do and a promise of help on his own plans for the dojo that he was planning to sell--or so he said. A reason for something, or anything, which Mac didn't have.

Methos started to pull away, and MacLeod tightened his grip. "What was today?" he asked again, turning them slightly. Even being able to see half Methos' expression was better than nothing at all. Was that tension under his hands?

Methos didn't try to pull away nor hide his face in shadow. "Does it have to be something? Anything other than what it is--was?"

It didn't, but it was, and Methos wasn't going to tell him; not for display, not open, but not hidden, either--just obscured. Everything spoke of trying to pull MacLeod back into something, toward something. The preparation, the meal, this place of quiet that belonged to neither of them, but felt familiar to both. Neutral ground.

If it were Joe, it would end with a beer and a clap on the shoulder and a goodnight. With Amanda, it would end with a fire in the upstairs bedroom and tangled sheets in the morning.

But this was Methos, and he was neither of those people, neither of those relationships and yet...

Both. Could be...might have been. Might be yet. He eased his grip and let his hand fall away. "Was this a seduction?" The wrong words again, but the right direction, the one he'd been poking at blindly all day. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Yes." After a breath and a moment, Methos spoke. "But you had it right the first time. Was."

MacLeod was no longer holding him, but Methos didn't move, still didn't move or dodge or evade or try to pack up their dishes in the cooler or bank the fire.

And yet Mac could feel it all the way over here, warming his insides, his throat. His jacket felt too heavy and too warm. "I never thought of--"

"Males?" Methos sounded surprised, and Mac shook his head.

"No. You...of you that way, until...now. Then. Here. Today..." He sounded like an idiot, but felt smarter than he had all day. "Why was?"

Now Methos looked flustered, and it wasn't just the fire adding color to his cheeks. Equal ground at last. "Because I can't be the reason you decide to stick around, and I don't want to be the reason you decide to leave." He was meeting MacLeod's gaze directly, no flinching, and the corners of his mouth curved up in a smile that could only be called ironic.

"That's taking a lot on, even for a man of your age and stature," MacLeod said, fairly certain his tone was solemn, but Methos made a rude noise anyway and relaxed. "Is that why now? Why at all?"

"No. I just thought one of us needed to be more obvious about it. But it wasn't, was it? Obvious?"

"Not until you said it," MacLeod said, and found the laughter from earlier in the day still lurking inside him. "I've been a little preoccupied."

"Understandable. Let's clean up, shall we? Then we can continue this upstairs, or on the way back to Seattle."

Seattle, where MacLeod's Jeep was--but not back to Seacouver. He filed it away and helped Methos pack up the cooler. Bay water put out both fires, and then they were headed up.

Inside, clean-up was unhurried, and they polished off the wine between them while they washed dishes and put food away, and Methos made a fresh pot of coffee. Mac moved away while Methos wiped the counters, then came back for his coffee, feeling a dizzying rush of déjà vu when Methos reached across the counter for the sugar.

Nice. The view was, and MacLeod decided being hit by a two-by-four would have been less painful and far less obvious. "You want a fire?"

Methos came upright. "I need to get you back."

"You're staying here, though," MacLeod said, half a smile on his lips as he lifted his mug.

"I had planned to." Methos sipped his coffee, set it down, and reached for the sugar again, but stopped when MacLeod stepped in close, not quite touching.

Not on display, but no longer a mystery, and MacLeod leaned in. Methos met his mouth more than halfway, opened to him, tasted him as lightly as MacLeod savored the lingering flavor of coffee and sugar and wood smoke.

"Is this a seduction, Mac?" Softer than a breath and as hazy and elusive as sunlight had been all day.

"Do you want it to be?"

"No."

It was MacLeod's turn to be surprised, but he didn't have much time to ponder it.

"I want it to be a choice."

No choice was irrevocable, no matter how much it felt like it. Not a twist of evasive logic, just a synching up of what was with what could be.

"It is."

"A fire would be good then. Upstairs."

This time it was Methos who leaned in, and more than mouths touched and explored, although lightly yet, testingly. A steady blaze, rather than a roaring inferno. For a man who seemed to be cold much of the time, Methos' skin was warm through the cotton of his shirt. His hands were warm, too, where they rested along MacLeod's shoulder, then at the nape of his neck.

The stew must have been drugged, or the cook was a wizard, a magician, a hypnotist, because Mac felt entranced, light-headed and disoriented when he took a breath that didn't taste and smell of Methos.

"I'll lock up." Methos' sounded none too steady himself, sliding past Mac, hand lingering on MacLeod's belly until he had to let go to get to the door and lock it. MacLeod picked up their mugs and carried them upstairs, the darkness falling behind him as Methos turned out the lights and locked the sliding glass doors.

Anyone else and he'd be sipping wine or liquor instead of coffee. But this felt right, tasted right--rich and strong, subtle as Methos' scent on his skin, the taste of him in his mouth.

A gas starter and a full wood pail made it easy. He was preternaturally aware when Methos topped the stairs, leaning against the doorway, watching him, arms folded across his chest and hands tucked under his arms. Mac wanted to think it was Methos' desire to keep his hands to himself while Mac handled flame and wood.

He was right, because the minute he was done and getting to his feet, Methos moved, arms down as he crossed the room. He was barefoot, which did something to MacLeod's insides he wasn't sure he wanted to think about. Dressed, but no shoes, women undressed, but in heels. Right now he was pretty sure which was sexier, and it wasn't merely opportunity or proximity.

MacLeod sat down, pulling his own boots off as Methos sat down next to him, almost behind him, stretching out to lay on his side, braced on an elbow. When MacLeod turned to face him, Methos' expression was unreadable again.

A choice. Not for me, or because of me.

He was in trouble--at least he sincerely hoped so, because it made everything else make sense. He wasn't ready to find out he might be wrong, though. Not yet--not first.

Methos didn't seem to be inclined to make him wait. Instead, he reclined to make MacLeod move and it went as smoothly as a sunset from there.

Now he knew what it was he'd been missing, hungering for, a feast before him and he hadn't seen it. Methos was hungry, as well, and disinclined to wait politely any longer for what he wanted, or for MacLeod to figure it out on his own. Methos peeling his shirt off was a pretty good indicator that Mac could do the same--or lose a few buttons and maybe some skin.

The fire danced with them as they moved, maneuvered, baring skin and desire in equal measure. Mac's suspicion that Methos' throat was a particularly sensitive area was confirmed, but he paid sweetly for the knowledge when Methos cupped him, squeezed, handled him expertly and thoroughly.

Mac pulled him down and close, pressing into the knowing hand, trying his best to breathe the air Methos did and force their flesh together in ways that couldn't be accomplished in the position they had fallen into. Hands closed together around solid flesh, and any thought of whys or maybes fled under a relief so sweet MacLeod was sure he'd crave it forever.

The first time was too fresh, too urgent and too fast, but not unsatisfying, as they both grappled for supremacy and surrendered almost in synch, then stretched out, panting softly against a backdrop of crackling wood and a room grown too warm.

The coffee wasn't even cold, but it wasn't what Mac wanted, and he moved, palmed the long back of the man laying beside him, then kissed the sensitive neck. "I'll be right back," he said, and Methos twisted and grinned, watching him as he descended the darkened stair and fumbled for the light switch.

He hadn't moved much when Mac returned, the other bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. Half-closed eyes watched him, but there was nothing sleepy in them, and the low wattage lamp near the bathroom had been turned on, discarded clothing and MacLeod's boots piled into a chair and out of the way. The 'was' had become 'is' once again as the small bottle on the bedside table attested, and MacLeod grinned as he poured. "Sure of me?"

"Not at all." Methos sipped and pulled the bottle from the table. "And don't assume it's mine."

MacLeod paused, then saw the glimmer of laughter in Methos' eyes and played along. "You said Jordan--"

"I said don't assume," Methos responded and set his glass down to open the bottle, and got only that far before Mac offered him a drink from his own glass, then followed to kiss him before he could swallow.

Wine-flavored skin was the dessert of choice, and the bed was far less pristine before the small bottle came into play again--Methos' choice as MacLeod lapped sweet wine from the low curve of his back and prompted sweeter, deeper sounds from his lover. There was no battle or urgency this time, but the hunger was still there until Mac was gasping from it, breaching and filling a body that clung to him, held him, made him once more feel drunk and drugged. He was consumed and overwhelmed to the point of darkness, alternately ridden and plundering, until his body shuddered and surrendered and he was caught and held, kissed softly and thoroughly. He wondered how Methos could ever claim he lacked passion.

Passion gave way to satiation, and then exhaustion, and it was bright again, but not from the fire, which Methos must have dealt with, because MacLeod had been in no condition to. He could smell brewing coffee, but he wasn't alone in bed, and he wondered if their host had shown up unexpectedly, sitting up and searching blearily for his clothes until Methos reached out and pulled him back.

"Timer," came the mumbled explanation, and it was followed by a turn of Methos' head and a smile curving lips that Mac imagined were still bruised and swollen looking. "But if you're going..."

He lay back, thinking about it. "I think not. No time soon, anyway," he said softly.

Methos pushed up, more awake than he seemed to look at him, solemnity replacing humor. "Don't make me the reason, Duncan. It won't work for either of us."

"I know that. I think I knew it before, but it's still true."

"So why?"

No excuses, and MacLeod found he didn't need any, really. Not any longer, but Methos had waited for him to figure it out. This time it was Methos' turn to work through it.

Mac pushed up as well, facing his lover, friend...sometimes teacher. Sometimes...

He pushed slightly, and Methos went, peering up at him, not troubled, but waiting.

"You waited. For me to find a reason. Why?"

For a brief moment the hazel eyes were masked, hidden under dark lashes and an expressionless face. Not shyness, just shifting gears again. "Because it had to be your reason."

Mac nodded, brushed the dark fringe of curls back from the pale forehead. "I know. And what was yours?" Obsidian couldn't be any harder than the gaze Methos gave him, searching Mac's face, looking for doubt, for hesitancy, for...something that would be shy of the truth. It wasn't there. If he could read deeper than MacLeod's face or words, he'd find no doubts. The hard gaze softened, brightened, the fine lines at the corners of Methos' eyes curving upward.

His mouth was soft, yielding and demanding all at once, and MacLeod took all he offered on every level he could express.

"Why is covered," Methos said when MacLeod let him speak.

"'Cause you make great fish stew," Mac said, perfectly seriously.

"That, too. Glad you liked it. We're having it for breakfast." Methos said on a chuckle and lay back. "For weeks," he warned.

Well, love was like that.

And once they finished the stew, there would still be the renovations to do. Lots of reason to stay. The whys would take care of themselves.

________________________________________

(1/2001)

For Rache


End file.
